


Cleaning up the Champions

by Stephanielikes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:52:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephanielikes/pseuds/Stephanielikes
Summary: Written for the September 2017 Wincest Writing ChallengePrompt: Richard Silken: Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light.





	Cleaning up the Champions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the September 2017 Wincest Writing Challenge  
> Prompt: Richard Silken: Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light.

Early morning haze melted away into goldenrod overcast skies. The last struggle of a mild winter against the encroaching spring. Sam made it to the first rest stop in the passenger seat. Dean filled the Impala’s  tank, went inside for provisions, and came back to find Sam sprawled in the backseat. Sam blanketed Dean’s blue jacket over his torso, having made a pillow of his own.

 

“Got lunch.” Dean held up a cellophane turkey and cheese sub of questionable freshness. Sam replies with a grunt as he nuzzled into a more comfortable position. “Probably a wise choice.” Dean tossed it onto the empty seat beside him. Between the pills, and the asphyxiation, his own stomach wasn’t up for more than water. Dean pushed in a cassette of Page’s best solos, turned the volume low, and pulled back on the road. The tremors in his hands hidden by a firm grip on the wheel.

 

Forest rolled into sands hill, flattened into plains, and grew into fields and farms with each mile closer to Kansas. With each pause in Sam’s snores, Dean flicked his eyes up to the review mirror. Around dusk his glance got met with open eyes, and a knowing half smile.

 

“How you feelin’?”

 

“Half dead.” Sam quipped.

 

Dean frowned, unable to properly scrutinize the various expressions, and noises Sam made as he sat up. He passed a lukewarm bottle of orange juice back. “Do you need to stop for the night?”

 

“I’d like to get back to the bunker.” Without the road to focus on, Sam assessed Dean minutely. “What about you?

 

“I’m good.”

 

“Should I drive?”

 

Dean scoffed. His grip tightened briefly, a subconscious flinch. He shifted down in his seat. The feeling of his brother’s hard look boring into the back of his skull.

 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice lost the teasing lilt from earlier at the clinic, now, soft, concerned, a gentle plea for openness Dean couldn’t allow, “what did you do?”

 

“Just adrenaline, Sammy.”  He turned the radio up, and pressed the gas pedal down.

 

*******

 

Two days in the bunker, and Dean still hadn’t calmed down enough to sleep. In all his dreams, Sam died. He splashed cool water on his face, grabbed the first aid kit, headed down the hall. Keeping Sam confined to bed was as hard as it’d always been. Kid could spend three days futzing around on his laptop, but tell him that’s what he should be doing, and, suddenly, he wanted to do anything but.

 

“Pull your pants up! I’m coming in!” Dean warned in lieu of knocking, pushing into Sam’s room.

 

Sam sat in bed with his laptop on his thighs, two thick volumes of lore spread open to his side. A box of case files, and another of books sneaked into his room since Dean checked on him last night. He met Dean’s accusing glare with bright-eyed innocence.

 

“We need more contacts who aren’t broke hunters. Do you know how many potential Hands of Gods we could look into if we knew one person in the Middle East?”

 

Dean shook the kit at him in response. Sam set aside his computer, slid his t-shirt up to his armpits, and laid back with his arms behind his head. Dean sat in the space on the edge Sam made for him as he’d shifted. Sam watched Dean grimace at the motley of red and purple bruises covering his abdomen. Yesterday’s bandage stood out in the middle. Its stark white, almost obscene. Dean popped open the metal box.

 

They fell into their roles quietly, neither wasting a thought that Sam could manage his own bandage change. Letting the other tend to their wounds was a self-care indulgence they’d grown into from all the times they couldn’t. An oasis of soft caresses in a touch starved desert. Dean peeled the tape back with unsteady fingers, mumbling an apology to soothe Sam’s pain. Sunken, and bloodshot eyes scanned for busted stitches, or streaks of infection. Dean wasn’t sleeping. Dean wasn’t eating. Dean wasn’t talking.

 

“Dea-ah!” Sam gasped cut off when Dean pressed around the edges of the of his wound.

 

“As understaffed, and overworked as that doc was she patched you up good.”

 

“Heh. Yeah? Think I’ll be up for the prize fight?”

 

“Let’s see if you can survive the cleaning first.”

 

Sam shut his eyes. His muscles tensed in anticipation of the cold burn of antiseptic. Dean held a gauze pad close to prevent too much spread. Sam flinched when the liquid hit.

 

“The sting is it working” Dean draped the pad over the sutures.

 

Sam hummed his discomfort. He dozed to the warmth and safety of his brother pressed to his hip, preparing more tape, and gauze. Dean’s subtle movements stopped. Sam waited for the dull achy pull of the tape sticking down. When it didn’t come, Same opened his eyes. Dean’s chin rested on his chest, his eyelids heavy, but not quite shut.

 

Sam brushed his fingertips over Dean’s forearm. “Dean.”

 

“M’fine!” His brother jerked.

 

Sam waited until Dean had his bearings back.

 

“Dean.” He shouldn’t’ve had to say the next part.  Dean know what came next.

 

Dean smoothed three edges down, tearing the final piece of tape off with his teeth to prolong the moment before an answer could be expected, but couldn’t stall more than that. “Should be good to shower tonight, or tomorrow.”

 

“What’d you do?”

 

Dean held out empty hands; shook his head. “I didn’t sell my soul.”

 

******

 

One flattened silver bullet rolled smoothly between Dean’s fingers. Too small to hold all the power over life that it did. Most of the dried blood had flaked off under the constant attention Dean lavished on it in the silent hours after Sam went to bed.

 

Sam’s alarm went off at six in the morning, like every morning, like clockwork, because it was. Dean squirreled away his keepsake. He occupied his hands with a bottle of beer, and a thin pamphlet from a sixth century monk. The lines blurred together as they had been since he found the damned thing. Dean let them, and waited.

 

Forty-five minutes later, Sam rapped on the door.

 

“It’s open.”

 

Sam entered, wet, slick hair framed his face, and droplets slid down his bare chest. He held out the dented metal first aid kit. “These stitches need to come out.”

 

“I’ll be the judge.” Dean threw his legs over the edge, and waved Sam over using the bottom of his bottle.

 

The younger brother walked over, his bare feet still leaving hot foot prints on the cool floor. Sam stood in front of Dean. Dean frowned at the yellowed skin.

 

“Looks worse than it feels.”

 

“It looks like shit.” Dean gripped Sam’s hips, twisted towards and away from the light. Dean pulled at the edges, nodding. He rubbed his eyes before picking up the scissors. He pressed his left hand flat against Sam’s stomach, steadying them both. Dean snipped and slid out each stitch. With the last thread, Dean thumbed the edge of the healing bullet hole. His eyes drifted shut.

 

Sam covered Dean’s hand with his own. He rested his other hand on the back of Dean’s head.

 

“Knew you weren’t dead.”  Dean’s whispered words warmed Sam’s flesh.

 

Sam twisted the short, silky strands of hair in his grip, and pulled. He looked down at his brother. Exhaustion weathered the features tilted up at him, but guilt glinted in the tears at the corner of the green eyes avoiding his gaze.

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Anything I had to, Sammy. Always.”


End file.
